Can't Go Back
by intextrovert
Summary: Sequel to "You Hope It's Not The Last Time". Brittany has left Lima for college in LA, and Santana is still shacking up with Hummelberry in New York. This story will show bits of their lives following the years after graduation. Canon until 4x17, rated T for now.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

**This is a sequel to my other story – You Hope It's Not The Last Time.  
Canon to 4x17, this picks up in the fall of 2013.  
Will be a series of looks into Brittany's and Santana's lives during the upcoming years.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee.**

* * *

**Los Angeles, august 2013:**

"I can't believe she didn't tell me!"

Your cheeks are burning, more from anger than exhaustion or the scorching, late-summer sun. You feel stupid, and weirdly betrayed even though you know you have no right. You were with Sam back then, but still. You hate that you apparently are the last one to find out, when it comes to Santana, it's always been the other way around and you don't like the change, at all.

"She probably thought you knew already," Mercedes pants, chugging from a water bottle.

It's becoming a routine of yours, to meet up for a jog whenever your classes and her work schedule matches. It's nice to hang out with someone you know well, to let down your guard a little. Not that you're a guarded person in general, but still.  
College is a lot of new to get used to in a very short time.

The fact that Mercedes was the one to suggest you work out together surprised you, you still remember how much she disliked booty camp back in senior year. First senior year that is. But a year in LA has toned down her sass a little, she's still very much independent woman, but a bit more humble.  
Part of you thinks she suggested running for your sake, because she knows that you love it, but also that you easily get lost in new places. You're trying to learn your way around LA, but it takes time, and Mercedes is nice company.

"Yeah, well, I didn't know. And after the shit she gave me for not telling her about Sam right away I never thought she'd do the same thing to me," you snap.

"Girl, I know, it was a lousy thing to do but I promise you, it meant nothing to either of them. I'm one hundred percent sure."

"But still! Quinn. She's supposed to be one of my best friends too, but she didn't say anything either."

"Yeah, but that's Quinn for you. Maybe she had a goody-two-shoes relapse and got all ashamed or something? She wouldn't be the first girl in history to gay panic."  
Ouch. That one hit a bit too close to home. Mercedes probably realized that too because she looks at you apologetically.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that," she apologizes.

"No, I know, it's cool. And whatever gay panic Quinn had I think she's over that by now," you say with a satisfied smirk.  
Mercedes picks up on your tone immediately and steps closer, putting her hands on her hips.

"What? Brittany, I'm telling you, if you know something I don't, you better spill. Now."

"Who knows what I know," you laugh. "I ain't telling, you've gotta catch me first," you tease and start running again, Mercedes' protests drenched in the sound of rubber soles on gravel.

-#-#-#-#-#-

You skip out on a dinner with some of your dorm mates that night and skype her instead. She has one of her rare nights off and you worry a little because she looks so tired. But then again, it could be the webcam's fault.

"Santana," you say quietly after maybe ten minutes of small talk that had the extra spice of Kurt and Rachel occasionally shouting stuff to you from somewhere in the loft.

"Brittany?" she questions back and you push away the anxious frustration and decide to just ask her.

"Why didn't you tell me that you slept with Quinn?"

She turns silent.

There are a lot of different silences, and this is one of the most uncomfortable ones you and Santana has ever shared. It reminds you of sophomore year, after your accidental phone slip-up that had Santana realizing that you both had to be more discrete if you wanted to keep the details of your friendship private. All those afternoons and evenings spent in her or your room, cuddling and making out, all the times you casually tried to ask her out on dates, knowing that you'd be turned down even before you opened your mouth.

Santana looks away, scratches her head, and her entire body language (or her head and shoulders – that's as much as you can see) screams _uncomfortable_.

"I'm not angry," you continue. "I just wondered why you didn't say anything. You must have known I'd find it out eventually. Puck, Tina and Mercedes are the worst gossips ever you know."

"It didn't mean anything," she mumbles after a minute of silence. She looks at you through the screen as if she wants you to reply, but you don't say anything.

"Brittany, I'm sorry you found out like this but it was a random hookup that never would have happened if we both weren't so miserably lonely at the time. And I wanted to tell you in person, but when should I have done that? Graduation day?" Her voice is a little sharper on the last two words, like a mixture of a scolding and a joke, wordlessly pointing out the fact that you haven't seen each other in person since, and also hinting at the way you left your relationship, or whatever it is.

You feel your cheeks heat up little, you certainly wouldn't have had time for this conversation on graduation day, or the day after. You chuckle lightly and Santana almost breaks out in a smile, seemingly sure that you're not mad, and you aren't. It's just that this is one thing in a row of many small things that confirms the fact that you and Santana are slowly, but inevitably drifting apart. And despite everything, despite the distance and the history, you don't want that to happen.

"I wish we could have seen each other more in the summer," you say, in a roundabout way trying to change the subject again.

"Me too Britt, but sometimes the timing's just off, you know."

You nod twice.

It feels like a raincloud has drifted in and parked above you and it's disturbing. You're talking to her, not just texting, for the first time in weeks and you don't know what to say. There are a thousand things you could tell her about college and classes and hanging out with Mercedes, Tina and Puck, but you don't know where to begin. Everything suddenly feels uninteresting when you say it to yourself in your head, so why should Santana care?

A completely different thing pops up in your head and you smirk at webcam-Santana who tilts her head the way she always does when she wonders stuff.

"What are you thinking of B?"

"Oh, nothing," you say slyly.

"Come on, I know that face. Your mind is halfway in the gutter already. Spill."

"What did Rachel say when she found out that you hooked up with Quinn before her?"  
Santana makes a disgusted face and shudders.

"Nah, not much. She was really snarky towards me, but I didn't figure out why until we busted them on graduation. Back then I just thought it was PMS or something."

"So what's going on with them now," you ask. "I haven't heard from Quinn in ages."

"Well, unpleasantly enough I have. Turns out Little Miss Celibacy Club is a screamer," Santana sighs.

"What, no way?!"

Santana frowns even more. "Yeah, unfortunately. Quinn was here two weekends ago, and when I got back from work one night I got to hear a lot of stuff I never want to relive again. I think I might be scarred for life," she sighs dramatically.

You laugh out loud then, because her offended pout is way too adorable.

"Britt, it's not funny. We live on a loft. We have one door – that leads to the bathroom – and headphones can only drown out so much."

"It's just.. I think it's karma," you giggle.

"What, no! I totally haven't deserved this," Santana objects.

"Come on San, there's no way we haven't kept Quinn awake in the past. Cheer camp, Glee competitions? Do you really think she sleeps that heavy?"  
Santana doesn't say anything.. just blushes and glares at you through the screen.

"Whatever. It's not like we were that loud when others were nearby," she mutters after a little while.  
You smile at her, nodding. "Whatever helps you sleep at night Santana," you tease.

At that, Santana yawns, and you look at the clock, horrified when you realize it's after midnight in New York.

"S, you should go to sleep, you look like you need it."

"Yeah, I guess. It was nice talking to you though. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, it honestly didn't mean anything."

"Santana, it's okay. I'm not mad, it just felt weird when I got to hear it from Mercedes."

"Good," she smiles.

"Sweet dreams, Santana. Talk to you soon."

"You to Britt. I.. um.. bye."

The screen goes black and you stare at it, longingly. You didn't miss how she had corrected herself, how she almost said _I love you_.  
You have no idea what to think of that. Was it just a habit, or would she have meant it?

* * *

**Thoughts?**

**Also: Thanks to everyone who read, faved and reviewed my other story. I hadn't planned to make a sequel but I got inspired.  
**

**Until next time.**


	2. Chapter 2

**October 2013**

The first time you're with someone since Brittany, you're drunk. It was a rainy friday night and Rachel and Kurt dragged you out of the apartment, sternly telling you to get on with your life or else they'll be holding Lizzy hostage.

(Lizzy is the one-armed pillow that Kurt gave a sex change and Rachel named after youtubing "Lizzy the Lessie".  
You may or may not sleep with her regularly.  
Yes, that sounded wrong even in your head. Get over it.)

You don't think you've been sulking, in fact you think you've been handling the reclining amount of Brittany in your life remarkably well. No reckless nights out, well not too reckless at least, you still work at a bar so it's not like you don't drink at all. But no hysterical sobbing, no excessive checking her social media, no breaking down when certain songs come on the radio.

(Except for that time when you came home after being to the grocery store and Kurt was dancing around the apartment with a feather-duster lsinging to _I Wanna Dance With Somebody _on the radio. It took whole of Pitch Perfect, half of Imagine Me & You and a pint of Ben & Jerry's to make you happy again after that. You blame PMS.)

You still keep in touch with her, through text messages whenever you think of random stuff that you want to tell her, and you've skyped a few times since she moved to California. It's just that the texts are getting shorter and shorter, farther and farther between. You knew it was likely to happen, and you know it's for the best – as far as you know, Brittany is doing really well at UCLA, and she gets more viewers for every episode of Fondue For Two that she posts.

But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. Hurt when she doesn't instantly reply to the picture of Rachel's failed attempt at whatever she was cooking that you sent, hurt when you don't have the slightest idea who the classmates that show up in her videos are. Hurt when you don't get the inside jokes she tweets, because you're on the outside.

And really, you don't wanna get with someone who's not Brittany. Not yet. It's always been Brittany, except for that one time with Quinn, and that time in Louisville when Elaine suggested you hook up to try and comfort you.

Every time that has truly mattered have been with Brittany, and that fact alone scares you more than you want to admit.

-#-#-#-#-

Her name is Kelly, or Kerry, you're not one hundred percent sure, and you sneak out of her apartment at 4 am saturday morning, leaving only a vague post it-note with an even vaguer apology scribbled on it (but no phone number) behind.

Weird, right? Santana Lopez does not leave post it's, or feel bad about one night stands. You honestly don't understand yourself.

You're probably still drunk.

She was good looking though, in a tomboyish way – half a head taller than you with wavy, shoulder-length, auburn hair and a clothing style that reminded you of Shane in The L Word. Not like Brittany at all, which is probably a good thing.

When you come home (because the Bushwick loft is your home now, and it actually feels like it too, especially since you divided the bathroom shelves equally) you start making a cup of tea, trying not to wake anybody.

Of course you fail. Lady Kurt Elizabeth Hummel is the lightest sleeper in all the lands, and when he stumbles into the kitchen-area in his ridiculous excuse for pajamas, you start sobbing, helplessly.

He doesn't say anything, walks over to you and holds you, let you sniffle into the stupid flannel night shirt he wears when Adam doesn't sleep over, and he doesn't even grump about the fact that you're sniffling all over something that most certainly was designed by some up-and-coming hipster fashion designer.

He just holds you, rubbing his hand on your back soothingly until you have no tears left.

"You want some tea?" you sniffle eventually.

"Santana, I'll make it. Go change and wash that sad panda off your face," he replies and puts the kettle back on. You're too exhausted to argue and pads over to the bathroom, grabbing a pair of sweatpants and an old McKinley hoodie as you go.

He was right, with all the mascara smeared under your eyes you do look like a panda. A sad, sad panda. Fuck.

-#-#-#-#-

"It's not that it was bad per se," you explain a while later. Kurt had fetched you Lizzy the Pillow and a blanket and ordered you to snuggle up on the couch so there you are, warm, comfortable and tired. And empty.

"It's just that.." You search for the right words to describe what it was like with Brittany without actually describing it. She was always the one without a filter, not you.

"She saw me, you know. It wasn't just about sex with her.. it was.."

"I know, Santana," Kurt says, and you know he does.

He's had his fair share of drama over the last months, all starting when Blaine moved to New York and started his freshman year at NYADA. Kurt and Adam had slowly gotten more serious over the summer – Adam insisted on taking it slow because of Kurt's history with Blaine, and you're sure Adam was worried from time to time. It's tough when the ex boyfriend/first love turns up and clearly wants his old boyfriend back.

That didn't happen though. Kurt visibly grew a couple of inches the day he told Blaine he didn't trust him after the cheating and that he didn't want anything more than friendship between them.

Blaine visibly shrunk, but you didn't have it in you to feel bad for him, he was the one who cheated, after all.

Right now they're in this weird kind of limbo because Adam, being the amazingly grown-up person he is, insisted that Blaine of course could join your little rag-tag-group when he felt like it. He's really been going out of his way, making sure that Kurt can stay friends with Blaine if he wants too.

And no one's strangled anyone yet, so..

-#-#-#-#-

They don't pester you about it, not at all. Not one single remark. You fell asleep on the couch and by the time you woke up it was afternoon and you couldn't hear the drizzle outside anymore. It was still raining, but Rachel, Quinn and Adam was rummaging around in the kitchen, being noisy but not in an irritating way.

The sarcastic part of you hates when the rest of your brain gets all mushy and soft over homey things but right now you're glad that you have them. They're loud and annoying ninety-nine percent of the time, but they're there, and as much as you want to deny it, you need them.

"Good afternoon, sunshine," Quinn says in that soft tone she rarely ever uses, even to Rachel.

She sits down next to you, patting the blanket covering your shoulders.

"Hi," you sigh, trying to un-feel the giant hole inside. You haven't felt this used since the last time you slept with a guy. There are many different types of sadness, you think. There's the life-altering, self-loathing, burning your insides with the heat of a thousand suns, breaking up with the love of your life for no good reason-kind, but there's also the empty sadness of getting drunk and trying to fix holes but in the end only digging them deeper-kind.

Today's sadness is the latter.

You're not sure which part hurt's the most – the fact that you tried to fix it, or the fact that it didn't work.

Quinn gets up again, only to return a minute later with a bowl of ramen and a coke, and for a brief moment you picture Coach Sylvester throwing a fit about your diet. Of course you stay in shape, work and dance classes isn't cheerios but you're not a slacker, but you don't do weird diets anymore.

"You wanna talk," she asks after a while of just sitting there.

"Not really," you say. "It seemed like a good idea after a lot of wine and tequila, but in the end it wasn't."

"Okay," Quinn says, just leaving the topic for you to revisit if you want to, and maybe you will. You have this weird trust going on between the two of you, now that the high school drama is left behind. You even suffered through her first real fight with Rachel, listening and caring.

Later, you and Kurt compared notes and neither of you understood what they were even fighting over, but they've always been drama queens, so.

You finish your noodles and retreat to the bathroom, standing under the scolding water 'til it turns freezing cold, trying to wash the foreign fingerprints away. But you still feel them hours later when you're curled up in bed – the kisses and touches that meant no harm, the mixture of alcohol and lust and longing. The confused desperate decision of trying to quell that longing, that monster in your chest, with whoever was near.

It's too easy, to get the attention of people who doesn't matter. You just switch on the charm. A part of you wish it was harder. Then maybe you wouldn't have felt like this now.

You wonder how long it will take for you to get over her.

You wonder if you ever want to.


End file.
